


you do the math, you expect the trouble

by postcardmystery



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Gen, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:18:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carol’s cold under his palms, an impossibility under the hot sun of northern Georgia, but she is, and he never touches anyone if he can help it, flinched every time anyone’s ever tried since all this started, since well before that, but he holds her now, and even he doesn’t know if he’s holding her or just holding her back.</p><p>Daryl Dixon at the end of the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you do the math, you expect the trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for violence and murder and vague references to past abuse.

“This is fuckin’ stupid,” says Shane, “that little girl’s dead. Forty-eight hours, you know the  _rules_ , Rick—”

“I ain’t,” says Daryl, an arrow between finger and thumb, just something to hold onto, to  _have_ , and Shane narrows his eyes, says, “ _What_?”

“Were nine days, for me, and I ain’t dead,” says Daryl, “but ‘spect you know best, yeah?”

Shane’s eyes are dark with fury, but he nods, once, and that’s it.

 

 

 _Arrows don’t run out_ , Merle always said,  _you ‘gainst a bear, that’s gonna matter, little brother_ , and Daryl knew better than to speak, because theirs was a language made entirely of movement, a hand sliding into a boot, under a shirt, because they’re brothers and brothers know where each other’s knives are hidden, except Merle wasn’t always so upfront, but,  _but_ , so it’s the crossbow he takes when it all goes to shit, because arrows don’t run out and people, well, people  _do_.

 

 

“I’m still sorry I shot you,” says Andrea, her smile apologetic, and Daryl shrugs, a little stinted, says, “I ain’t. Not real bad.”

“It’ll leave a scar,” says Andrea, and Daryl can’t help it, has to smirk at that, says, “Yeah, like I said. Not real bad.”

“I just wanted to learn to shoot,” says Andrea, self-consciously hefting the shotgun back up onto her shoulder, and Daryl smirks a wider, says, “Well, you fuckin’ did. ‘Bout fuckin’ time, anyways.”

“I  _know_ , right?” says Andrea, and Daryl looks down, away, but she’s still smiling at him, and it’s less apologetic, now, and more something else, something else he definitely doesn’t know how to handle, so it’s old tricks, looking down, looking away, but his old tricks are starting to fail him and she’s still smiling, and.

 

 

 _It’s jus’ f’today, tomorrow, maybe, if they’re fuckin’ easy t’steal from_ , Merle had said, and Daryl nodded, crossbow on his back, and they hadn’t eaten anything but squirrel for days, and Lori had pressed a can of beans into his hands, said,  _You look skinny as skinny gets, sweetheart_ , and she’d been right, and he’d taken them without saying thank you, without saying  _anything_ , because her eyes had been kind and no one should have kind eyes, no one  _ever_  has kind eyes, but especially not now, as it all crumbles around them, and she’d been afraid of him, he could tell, walker blood on his shirt and animal blood on his face, but she’d given him the beans and smiled, even as Merle leered, even as Daryl said nothing, and she was kind, but the man who stood at her shoulder, he sure wasn’t, and Daryl had eaten his beans in silence, as that kid of hers watched him with wide eyes, and he still didn’t say thank you, but something niggled under his skin, something  _new_.

 

 

“You want to talk about them scars, son?” says Dale, and Daryl cocks his head, says, “That work on everybody else, old man?”

“You’d be surprised,” says Dale, tugging his hat down over his eyes, and Daryl says, “Ain’t sure I would be. But, yeah, I wear a fuckin’ filthy shirt in this heat for the fun of it. An open book, I am.”

“Just asking,” says Dale, mildly, and Daryl raises an eyebrow, lifts his crossbow, watching, always watching, says, “Yeah, s’the problem.”

 

 

He wakes up every day, and his brother isn’t there, something that nags through everything he does, like little pin-pricks in his skin, red and dirty beneath the surface, scrapes that he’s not sure are ever going to heal, because Merle is still a voice inside his head, the voice he doesn’t want to listen to, the voice he doesn’t want to have at all, and loves his brother, because blood is blood and flesh is flesh, and it’s the same blood and the same flesh, and that means something,  _everything_ , out here, where blood is death and flesh is food and the dead walk, but he wakes up every day and his brother isn’t there, and every day it gets a little easier, a little lighter to carry.

 

 

Sophia’s making faces at him, and Carol says, “Stay with Daryl, darlin’. He’ll keep you safe.”

He doesn’t let his expression change, doesn’t let anything seep through, but it hits him then: she  _means_  it.

 

 

Carol’s cold under his palms, an impossibility under the hot sun of northern Georgia, but she is, and he never touches anyone if he can help it, flinched every time anyone’s ever tried since all this started, since well before that, but he holds her now, and even he doesn’t know if he’s holding her or just holding her back.

 

 

“Your brother’s gone,” says Rick, like that explains it all, because he won’t say,  _I think you should go, you dangerous trash_ , and Daryl scrubs a hand through his filthy hair, says, “Yeah, well, I ain’t.”


End file.
